


The Fifth Hostage

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John's only about three streets down from the flat before hands grab his back and he's shoved into a car which hadn't been there a second before... Then it clicks. He breathes in sharply. Sherlock said five pips, five hostages, but they'd only had four.</i> SPOILERS for "The Great Game."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fifth Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> The missing time between when John leaves the flat and Sherlock arrives at the pool. Everyone seems to be doing their own writing of after the end but I thought, since I hadn't seen anyone do it, I should fill in the gaps instead!

John's only about three streets down from the flat before hands grab his back and he's shoved into a car which hadn't been there a second before. His face hits the seat and he tries to spin around but an elbow stabs into his back inciting from him a strangled gasp of pain. Someone else shoves into the car beside him, the door slamming, and then the car moves with squealing tyres.

"No need to struggle, Dr. Watson."

John tries to look up to see who's speaking but a hand on his back keeps him down. The end of a gun jabs sharply into the back of his neck, shoving his forehead against the seat. Out of his peripheral vision he sees just a sliver of the rest of the car.

"What do you want?" he asks into the leather.

"I'm sure you've guessed by now."

He snorts half in annoyance, half in fright. What the hell does he mean? Why does everyone have to play games and not just come straight out with it? Then it clicks. He breathes in sharply.

Sherlock said five pips, five hostages, but they'd only had four. Oh, fuck.

"Ah, see, there it is." The owner of the voice across from him claps his hands. "Only took you a minute longer than I expected. Perhaps Sherlock is rubbing off on you a little."

The voice is familiar but John doesn't know why. He breathes in slowly through his nose then out again, just in and out trying to stay calm.

He sees the shiny black shoes of the man speaking resting primly side by side across from him. Another pair of shoes, less expensive, are beside those. The hand holding him down makes three against one, not counting who ever must be driving. The odds are well stacked against him.

"If you're trying to come up with some clever escape plan I'd give up and leave such hard thinking to the professionals." The man laughs once. "Plus, our meeting isn't until midnight so you have plenty of time to run through futile attempts in your head, my dear."

"Christ…" John mutters.

The man laughs again. "Oh yes, how long is that, four hours from now?"

"Oh, you can count," John snaps.

The man holding the gun jabs it harder into his neck and John hisses in response.

"Now, now," the man says, "mustn't be so snappy, Dr. Watson, or you'll find my men quite displeased. More really, I'll ask them to be displeased with you and I'm sure you can imagine something unpleasant arising from that."

"This isn't unpleasant already?"

The man laughs low in his throat and it feels more threatening than the gun pressed against him.

"Dr. Watson, my plans for you can go any number of directions." He pauses and John can see his hands now clasped together as he leans forward in his seat. "All of them are _quite_ unpleasant."

John breathes in slowly but does not respond.

Twenty minutes, as far as John can tell, pass in silence until the car stops. John tenses, ready for any sign of a chance of escape. Memories of combat training flash behind his eyes, Afghanistan, a steady gun hand. Escape is always the goal when captured, never be a hostage.

The door furthest from John opens and the man with the gun on him yanks him up. John tries to turn enough to see who it is pulling the strings but he's hauled out of the car before he can see more than a flash of a dark suit. The man with the gun on his neck keeps a vice-like grip on his left arm while the other man from the car appears to latch onto his right arm.

"Ah, such memories," the man in charge says from behind him.

John looks up at where they are. It's not the dark unused warehouse he'd expected.

"Though I must say, I've never been here this late at night before. Don't expect many go for late night swims here often."

The men holding onto John drag him forward right through the front doors, foot steps following behind. The building is dark, no late night janitors or any sort of employees around that John can see. He tries to keep track of the halls they walk down - right then left, past the main office, past the women's locker room. They move quickly by the entrance to the stairs for the gallery. John catches a flash of movement, someone up there?

"No lagging!" the man chides as John tries to slow them for a better look.

The two men holding him jostle John on through the doors of the men's locker room. The party weaves through the lockers, past the showers and out onto the pool deck. A few of the lights are on and the water in the pool ripples quietly. Two men in black suits wearing sunglasses wait for them. Dramatic much?

"Are you going to drown me?" John asks, sounding calmer than he feels.

The man snorts behind him. "Wouldn't want to break with my bombing pattern, now would I?"

One of the men in the black suits reaches into a changing booth and pulls out a black vest. The vest is wired with C4 explosives. John can't stop a shaky breath.

"Surprise!" The man laughs.

_'Never be a hostage,'_ John thinks.

Suddenly he lets himself sag in the hands of the men holding him. He feels their hands relax for one second in surprise then John jolts back up. He yanks his arms back, freeing his left completely and pulling the right off balance, though the man keeps a fragile hold. John lashes out quickly with his elbow and smashes the man to his left holding the gun in the face. The impact makes a satisfying crack as John breaks the man's nose. He hears the gun clatter to the floor. John sweeps out with his leg to try and take out the other man holding him but it's too late. Two sets of hands grab his shoulders and pull him back. John struggles violently, kicking the man still barely holding his right arm in the knee cap.

"Bastard!" He screams, letting go to clutch at his leg.

The two men holding John from behind shove him down onto the floor, cracking his chin on the tile. John struggles once more but he can't get up, hands firm on his shoulders and a knee against his back. He hears footsteps and sees those same perfect shoes.

"Really, John, such bad manners." John sees the man's knees as he crouches low to touch John's face. "Though, one can't really expect much from someone else's dog."

He stands again and walks away behind them. "Time to dress for the show!"

The knee leaves John's back and the hands pull him up violently. They hold his head still and an ear phone is forced in his ear, the cord and pack shoved down the back of his shirt to be clipped at the top of his pants. The man he kicked in the knee limps around from John's right with the bomb vest in hand. John digs in his heels and tries to pull back. He knows he can't win; knows they're putting that bomb on him but there is no way in hell he won't fight them every step.

"Just give it up mate," one of the men holding him says.

_'Never be a hostage…'_

"Fuck off," John barks.

Then a hammer clicks and a gun presses into his neck again just under his jaw. John closes his eyes once and breathes out. He opens them and the man holding the vest smiles. John stops struggling. They pull out his arms, ripping off his top coat, then threading his arms through the vest like he's a doll and fastening up the front to the top. John's knee victim slips into one of the changing stalls and comes back out holding a winter coat, complete with fake fur on the hood.

"Classy…" John says weakly as they put it on him, adding black winter gloves over his hands for the finishing touch.

The man holding the gun shoves him forward once and John hears the others step back. He turns around to face them, three men in black suits, two with guns. Behind them he can see another man with his back to him. The fourth guard in a matching black suit pokes his head in from a side door, a bandage over his nose. At least John did something.

"We're all set, sir."

The man with his back to them waves a hand in the air. The guard at the door exits as do two of the other suits. All those who remain are John, one man pointing a gun at him, and the conductor of it all.

"Well," the main man starts then turns around making John gasp in surprise, "I suppose we should let you settle in."

"But you're…" John stares in utter shock at Jim from the hospital.

He doesn't believe it; it can't be. It really just can't be but it is the same man with Molly, the same man who fumbled around Sherlock with no subtlety, the same man who they met for all of one minute. A small part of John's brain which sounds very much like Sherlock says, 'all part of the game.'

Jim smirks at John and motions to a door between the blue and red curtained stalls. "Please, sit down."

John shakes his head. "Don't do this…"

Jim huffs and shrugs, a big rolling motion which seems to spread though his whole body. He walks forward past his armed guard so he's standing right in front of John.

"If you didn't want to end up strapped to a bomb you shouldn't have befriended Sherlock Holmes."

Then he steps to the side and walks past John. The man left with the gun motions it at the door. John grits his teeth. The man looks up at the gallery and John hears a distinctive rifle click.

"Do sit down, John," Jim calls from behind him. "We still have a bit of a wait for our consulting detective friend so you may as well relax."

The gunman leans over and opens the door. John breathes in slowly and steps in. The door clicks shut behind him.

It's just another locker room with a bench as soon as you walk in. The lockers have been moved somehow to block the path way further back so it looks very much like a box. John can see cameras taped up on top of one locker row and above the door he came through, keeping an eye on him. There is nothing else in the room, just the bench and locker cage.

"Take a seat, John," Jim's voice buzzes in his ear. "I don't want to have to watch you stand and fidget."

"Why are you doing this?" John asks as he sits facing the door. "Your game is over. Didn't you do enough already?"

Jim laughs in his ear. "It's my game, Dr. Watson. I make the rules."

"People's lives aren't a game!" John snaps.

He's met with silence. John looks up at one of the cameras suddenly feeling tense. With a man like this John doesn't know what might set him off. Maybe he won't wait for Sherlock to arrive before pressing the button which rips John apart.

"Well, John," John tilts his head at the voice as though the man were standing beside him; "perhaps you just don't play the right games."

John shakes his head wanting to scream. Instead, he clenches his gloved hands and bites the edge of his lip. He thinks of training for the army, of the lectures on negotiating with the enemy and the real danger of suicide bombers. He thinks of the solid weight of a gun in his hand.

In the war John fixed bullet wounds, removed shrapnel, pulled people out of the line of fire so he could stop the bleeding. He's been under fire before, been in battle, seen people die from car bombs and rockets. Bloody hell, he actually took a bullet in the shoulder. But this isn't a war or a battle or something with mental lists of tactics. This, right now, is just him with explosives on his chest and a madman in his ear. This isn't something he could have ever planned for. Hide and seek starts to form a whole new grotesque meaning in John's head.

"What are you going to do to Sherlock?" John asks.

Jim laughs. "Me? I'm not going to do anything. I have you for that."

John clenches his teeth angrily. "You can't just use me as bait!"

"Simple minded as you seem." He hears Jim tut tut. "You're not bait. You're the surprise."

_'…the hostage.'_

"Who are you?" John snaps, banging his fist on the locker nearest him and staring up at one camera. "Who are you really?"

The same low laugh from the car trickles through the earphone. "You know who I am, Dr. Watson." His voice sounds quiet and deadly now, like he can't wait for the chance to watch John blow apart and splatter blood onto Sherlock's face. "You may just be an average man but no doubt the dots can connect for you as well." He laughs once more. "You know, _exactly_, who I am."

John hates the sound of Jim's laugh, wants to lash out in angry ways he never normally does. The worst part, though, is he's right. If this really turns into some thriller movie battle of wits with Sherlock as the hero then only one name fits for the villain.

"Moriarty," John whispers.

Moriarty giggles shrilly until it dips down into a deep laugh. It's all very villain.

"I would say 'pleased to meet you' but you're really just the fork to stab the cake."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, now, Dr. Watson." The way Moriarty's voice curves around the title 'doctor' makes it sound like an insult. "You know just what I mean."

"No, I really don't." John looks up at the cameras again wishing he had his gun to shoot them out.

Moriarty snorts making John wince at the sharp sound in his ear. "Lucky for me there is in fact one person in this world Sherlock Holmes cares about." He pauses and John can hear the thin lipped smirk. "Not so lucky for you."

"What are you going to do to Sherlock?" John asks again quietly.

"Wait and see, John Watson, wait and see."

John glances down at the wires on his chest and says nothing. Two cameras spying down, four walls keeping him in, at least one gunman hiding up in the shadows, and one explosive vest all sum up to zero chance. John has no options, no escape plan, no way to get himself out of this, no way to warn Sherlock.

John breathes in and out, keeping his heart rate down as best he can.

_'Hostage, hostage, hostage,'_ his head chants.

He can do nothing but wait.

 

Hours later Moriarty's voice suddenly chirps brightly in his ear. "11:58, your saviour arrives early."

John turns his head at the sound of a door opening out on the pool deck. He tenses up, hands gripping the bench, and thinks of shouting, tries to think of some hint he can give to send the person away.

"Shh, shh, shh," Moriarty coos in his ear.

"Brought a little getting to know you present." The voice is Sherlock.

"Do stand up, Dr. Watson," Moriarty says, "time for the show."

John stands up and places his hand on the door as Sherlock continues to call out to the seemingly empty pool. John wants to say _'no, I won't do this,'_ wants to do something, anything but what Moriarty tells him to.

"Now, you know the rules." Moriarty's voice seems to have a somewhat gleeful sound to it. "You've seen the show before. Remember, repeat after me and nothing more."

"All to distract me from this!" Sherlock says, voice resounding off the tiles.

There is nothing John can do.

"Out we go!" Moriarty replies in John's ear.

John closes his eyes and opens the door, stepping out. He looks down the length of the pool to see Sherlock by the far wall. His eyes widen ever so slightly at seeing someone he clearly did not expect. John wouldn't be able to argue with him about the surprise. Then Moriarty's voice in John's ear starts the game again.

"Evening."


End file.
